


All Loyal Frenchmen

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [8]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: When DeGaulle sends out the clarion call for all loyal Frenchmen to return to join in the battle for freedom, Louie feels compelled to answer the call.  But what about those he leaves behind?  The decision seems so easy, until an accident makes him question just where he can do the most good.  Can a new friend help him find his way?





	All Loyal Frenchmen

{"Bloody 'ell, 'e's gonna do it! Never thought 'e'd leave us, but Louie, well, 'e's French, through and through, and with that DeGaulle giving that 'all loyal Frenchmen' speech a 'is, guess we shoulda expected it. I don't want 'im to leave; 'e's my best friend, my first friend in this bloody camp. I'd've died for sure if 'e hadn't been so stubborn about not letting me. What am I gonna do without 'im? What are WE gonna do without 'im?"}

They were all thinking along those terms, the command team, the ones who knew just how much LeBeau contributed. Maybe the rest of the camp didn't, couldn't, but THEY knew. It was his making strudel for Schultz that got them some of their best information, their surest diversions. It was his cooking dinner for Klink and the visiting hotshots that gave them access they'd never be able to get, plus allowing for Newkirk and Carter to act as the wait staff to get even more done. It was his being so small, being able to get into small spaces, overcoming his claustrophobia in order to do so, that let them pull off some of their more improbable capers. It was his making broth and soup for them when they became ill that kept them going, especially Newkirk who was always teetering on the edge of it due to the time he'd spent a prisoner, under appalling conditions, long before any of the others had been captured.

He was a vital member, a needed and loved member of the team, and now he was leaving. Not to mention, his escaping, well, that would break Klink's perfect non-escape record, and LeBeau was too well known, too distinctive to bring in a ringer as they had for some other escapees. And as valuable as Klink found him as a chef for the big shots, there was no way they could get Klink to transfer him so they could help him escape from somewhere else and NOT mess up their record. Hogan couldn't even really order him to stay; they weren't even in the same army!

They all took turns trying to dissuade him, but in the end, it was no good. So they tightened their resolve and sent him on his way with their best wishes, handshakes, and from Peter, a hearty hug and damp eyes. He'd been all the way to the first transfer point when Hogan caught up with him; a rare opportunity to get a defecting general back to England, but only with LeBeau's help. It hurt, being so close, seeing the appeal in the lovely blonde Marie's eyes, knowing she was to take him the next part of the way, then on to join DeGaulle and the Free French and fight for his LaBelleFrance once again, the way a man SHOULD fight, not with a skillet and saucepan, but with a rifle. Still, one last job, very well, he owed them that.

So he returned, and did the job, and the General, accompanied by Hogan, Newkirk and Carter, was on his way to meet the team sent to bring him out. Now, it would be his turn. All he had to do was to wait til they got back, get some rest, then, he would be off, back to where he should be. He headed down the ladder to talk to Kinch, knowing how the black man hated being left behind so much of the time, knowing how the time drags, how the one left behind always worried til the others show up again; well, he's been the one to be left behind before, just as he is now, except this will be the last time. He will have no more waiting, wondering; he will be gone, off and doing important things somewhere else. He is so busy thinking his thoughts, his foot slips off the twisting rung of the ladder; he tries to catch himself, but can't, falls, hits his head, and then there is only darkness.

He finds himself sitting in a bright kitchen, in a chair pulled up to a big country table. He can't think of how he came to be here, but he likes what he can see. The big stove, you could cook excellent meals there, and there are two ovens; generous cupboards, open door to the pantry showing rows of filled canning jars, braided ropes of onions and garlic and peppers, crates of potatoes and turnips and carrots. Above the wide double sink an equally wide window, looking out over green sloping fields and pastures, backing up to steep cliffs. Clean, peaceful. He turns at a sound behind him, and she is pouring coffee into blue china mugs, arranging pastries on a blue and white speckled plate.

"So you say you would find it easier if you knew for sure," she said, as if it were a conversation they had already been in the middle of. "That is true, of course, but Louie, very few of us know for sure, unless we have the far-sight, and those of my family who DO have the sight, well, they don't seem to get a lot of joy from it."

He takes up the conversation as well, "yes, but surely going to fight for my beloved France is the right thing. I do good things, yes, there at the camp, making strudel to bribe Schultz, cooking for the Bosche so the team can do the monkey business, but they are not the IMPORTANT things that DeGaulle is calling for me to do. They cannot MAKE me stay!"

"Well, no, I don't imagine they can. Have they tried?"

"Oui, each have tried to talk me out of it!"

"No, Louie, that is trying to CONVINCE you to stay; have they tried to MAKE you stay? Has Hogan ordered you, has Newkirk refused to make you the proper papers or clothing, that sort of thing?"

He frowned, "well, non," slightly grudgingly, thinking it unfair for her to be thinking so rationally when he was no longer capable of it. The grin on her face told him she was reading his mind, and he had to give her a rueful smile back and a slight shrug, "oui, you have the right of it." 

He sipped his coffee, ate a bite of the truly excellent tarte tatin she had put in front of him, thinking he should ask her for the recipe. He considered pouting a bit, considered telling her she didn't understand, that SHE had never been in this position, of having to make truly difficult decisions. He considered, but even in his overly emotional state he knew that was ridiculous.

From what Newkirk had told him, she had made difficult decisions many a time during that year in London, including deciding to take a knife in the back to prevent him from doing so. From his own observing of the interaction between those two, he knew there were difficult decisions that had been made that Newkirk had NOT discussed with him, perhaps had never even been aware of, decisions of the heart. He knew of her visit to camp, and what you would have thought would have been a hugely difficult decision - to remain in safety and complete her mission, or to set her own mission aside and put herself in the worst of harms way, for the sake of Newkirk, of the others - knowing she'd made that decision in what had to have been minutes, if that long. He knew of the decision to put herself into the hands of a German General, distracting him so that Newkirk and Olson could be retrieved from Gestapo Headquarters. Yes, he'd not get far telling her she didn't understand difficult decisions. 

"Caeide?"

She turned to him, "more coffee, Louie?"

"Non, but . . ."

She looked at him kindly, waiting, "yes?"

"Caeide, how did you make the decision, back in camp? About going to the Kommandant's quarters that night? You ignored your own orders, put your OWN mission at risk, your life, your safety. Why did you take any action at all? How did you decide?"

She looked at him, stunned that he was asking her that, thinking perhaps he was being sarcastic, but in looking again, realized he was truly serious. She shook her head, remembering, remembering her realization of what that sadistic lunatic was planning, knowing it would be Peter, knowing if it hadn't been Peter he still would have suffered mightily with it being Andrew or young Olsen, knowing it might not end that night for them with that man, what he was capable of, what he had threatened, the deaths of so many. Had she actually made a decision? Perhaps she had, yes, she must have, at some level, though she'd not considered it that, not until now.

"Caeide," she looked up, startled, to see him staring at her expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Louie, I was thinking. That night . . . Well, perhaps I should start with how I make MOST really, really important decisions, when there is time to actually think. You see, all actions, even the smallest, can have consequences. You, you want to own a restaurante, yes?" getting his nod in return.

"So you are most observant in that field. Say, you eat a fine meal in a tiny bistro. The food is excellent, the waiter had performed to the highest standards. You are impressed, so you speak with the chef, tell him of how impressed you were, give him many compliments. You express your thanks to the waiter, leaving him a truly magnificent tip. These are good things, on the surface, yes?" He nods, puzzlement on his open face.

"Perhaps your compliments will inspire the chef to make the plunge, open his OWN restaurant, and become highly successful and becomes known far and wide. Perhaps he will open that restaurant, but in doing so, his wife will meet his new maitre d', run off with him, and the chef will shoot himself in despair." Louie isn't sure of the logic of a chef with a fine successful restaurant shooting himself over a woman, even if he was French; if he was Russian, now . . . but he accepts her trail of thought. By the grin on her face, he suspects she understands his scepticism.

"The waiter, that magnificent tip will let him pay the rent for another week, maybe buy some extra food, give him and his family a bit of relief from worry. On the other hand, perhaps someone sees you give him that tip, they attack him on the way home; he is left injured, unable to work, and without the money, with no means for paying the rent or buying food, and the whole family becomes homeless. You, all you did was pay a sincere compliment, give a well-earned tip; you have no way of knowing what comes of it. On the other hand, if it had been a bad meal, and you complained, perhaps you discouraged a very talented chef-in-the-making who was having a really off night, and he decides not to try any further, but to become a shoemaker, and the world loses a first-class chef. The waiter, you complain, he loses his job, his only source of providing for his family."

"You cannot let the not-knowing paralyze you, keep you from taking action; you cannot sit in a corner all of your life, making no decisions, taking no action, just because you do not know the outcome of those decisions, those actions. But which actions do you take? When do you refrain from taking action? For me, I look at what I see the possible actions might be, in your case, do I stay with the team? Do I go to join DeGulle? In that case, if it were me having to make that choice, I would think of each separately. If I stay with the team, what is the worst possible scenario I can think of for me, for the team? What is the best, for me, for the team? If I go to join DeGaulle, what is the worst, the best?"

"Well, what do YOU see as the best, the worst?"

"Louie, isn't that for you to think on, to decide?"

"Yes, but I would like to hear your thoughts, s'il vous plait? I truly wish to hear this," and the look on his face showed he really meant it. She sighed, considered whether to answer, wondering if this was one of those decisions she'd make and later find she'd chosen wrong. Still, he was asking, she owed him honesty for what he'd done for Peter. She got up to refill their cups, and thought, then nodded her head as she sat back down.

"Very well, best and worst, for you, for the team. I may give you nightmares, Louie, I warn you; I have a very vivid imagination, and you and the others are much in my thoughts, you know, and my own nightmares are, well, intense. So, you stay with the team."

"The worst possible scenario (and believe me, there are many to choose from, with all you face there, but this is one), but say, you stay, the camp is visited by a Nazi officer you recognize as having committed atrocities in your beloved France; you are assigned to watch him from a concealed space, but between your claustrophobia and your hatred, you are unable to maintain self control, and are discovered, taken into custody. In trying to save you, the entire organization is uncovered, and in retaliation, because of your actions, the Nazi's destroy the camp and kill everyone in it."

She watched his eyes grow huge, and his face wan. "Do you want me to continue?"

He gulped and nodded, "Oui".

"The best, you stay, you continue to play your part, and because of your contributions, of which you and I know there are many, you and your team survive, are able to accomplish many good things, save many people, eventually walk out those camp gates and build new lives."

"And if I go?" he asks.

"The worst possible scenario I can see, you will have broken Klink's record for no escapes, he is removed and the new Kommandant is a brute. Your operation is no longer able to function effectively, many who would have been rescued linger in other camps or die there or are shot as they are caught; your team is killed off, one by one or in a group trying to do the job; the others in the camp, well, many of them die from disease or from lack of food and supplies, and you are left alive to know they died, and your leaving was the start of it."

"The best?" he wasn't sure whether most anything wouldn't be a best, at least a better, not after that, but he might as well go through the process.

"The best? Klink's record of no-escapes goes to 'only one escape', and no one much raises a fuss, other than Burkhaulter goading him about it now and then. The team finds other ways to bribe Schultz, other ways to get done what you would have done for them, and they continue the operation, missing you, but knowing you are doing what you felt you had to do, them walking out that gate together just as they'd planned. You, you do marvelous things for LaBelleFrance, DeGaulle himself pins a medal on your chest after the war, and you go to rebuild your life, opening your restaurant." He sits, drinking his coffee, finishing the tarte tatin, thinking. 

"You never said, about that night?"

She had hoped he wouldn't return to that subject; she still had nightmares. "I have to confess, I don't know." His eyebrows raised, and he looked at her in disbelief.

>"I mean it. I heard what was going on, I knew it would be Peter, that he wouldn't let the others go. You, Louie, you know him as well as I, you know that. I knew there was no guarantee it would stop there, even with that sacrifice. I knew I had a chance of stopping it, had the means of at least getting that much done. The Clan would have dealt with the assassin if I wasn't able to, although I knew that put others at risk. I knew, even if I succeeded there could be retaliation, especially if I failed to cover the trail well. I suppose, although I didn't sit down to think of best and worst, I knew how the scale was weighted, at least then, as best I could."

"Peter, Andrew, Olsen, the rest of you on one side, balanced against me, people I didn't know, and a lunatic and his staff on the other. As I said, there was no conscious decision; it was what had to be done. And I know how that sounds, after the fine speech I gave about thinking about the best and the worst of each side of an action. I'm sorry, it isn't very consistent, I know," she shrugged at him, with a wry look on her face.

He looked back at her, shaking his head, "ma soeur, it is VERY consistent; the fact that you didn't take a great deal of time to think it through, that means nothing. You thought of the worst, and knew that ANYTHING better than that, would be better, and that you might not be able to prevent the worst, but decided you had to try. You just think very quickly, I believe," with a kind, understanding smile, "and I believe you always put what is best for PETER on the balancing scale, very heavily weighted."

Her eyes were solemn, troubled, sad, "perhaps, but that is not so easy to see, either, many times, what is best for him. And it is not always something I have any say in, either, or something I have a right to have a say in."

He reached out to touch her hand, "yes, that is true, but you do what you can, for him, for his well-being, his before your own, I think. That does count, certainement." He watched as she busied herself clearing the dishes from the table, {"not everyone can say that, ma petite soeur."}

"Oh, and one more thing, a favor, s'il vous plait . . ."

"Ohhhh! Mon tete!"

"LeBeau, LeBeau, wake up! Man, hell of a time to break your skull; you're due to leave in about twelve hours!" Kinch was hovering over him, he was laying flat in his own bunk.

"What 'appened? Is 'e alright?" Newkirk's worried voice sounded in the background, and he looked over to see Peter, Andrew and Hogan ranged behind Kinch.

"Took a header going down into the tunnel, I think. I found him at the bottom."

"Oui, I think I slipped. That second rung, it twisted under me."

"I'll take a look, may need to replace it," Carter offered.

"Well, you get some rest; you'll need to be packed up and ready by twenty-two hundred, to meet Marie."

"Oh, there is no rush; I'm not leaving; I've changed my mind." That got him dead silence and blank stares, which was understandable after all the impassioned speeches he had given them about LaBelleFrance, DeGaulle, his duty, etc.

"Not leaving; little mate, did that knock on your 'ead do more 'arm that it looks?; you really wanted this, fighting for your country, doing big and important things," Newkirk offered.

"Oui, I did, and I do. I just weighed things over, and decided, what I am doing here, THOSE are big and important things too. Things perhaps I am the one who is supposed to be doing. DeGaulle has many Frenchmen; you have only one, ME; you are stuck with me being YOUR Frenchman, for better or worse," and he grinned at them wholeheartedly. 

"Wonder what changed his mind," Kinch asked Hogan later.

"Don't know, but I'm sure glad something did! We need to get that schedule from Schultz and for that we need LeBeau's strudel!" But it wasn't apfel strudel that turned Schultz's head that night; no, it was something new, something that smelled luscious, even to the lanky Englishman who LeBeau said had no appreciation of food.

"So you like it, Pierre? It is tarte tatin, a special recipe from a good friend. A very good, very wise friend. Perhaps, after the war, we can get her to make it for you, oui?"


End file.
